


High Hopes

by sandsalt (legacyofbast)



Series: Hopes and Bridges [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Depression, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Canon AU - 1978, Slow Burn, Songfic, Swearing, Translation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29039601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legacyofbast/pseuds/sandsalt
Summary: Reunited in 1978, the team is once again engaged in the endless and meaningless Gravel War. Despite the work of Doc and Respawn, Sniper had the thought this was where they would meet their demise. At least one of them. But hey, with friends surrounded the nights of wonder.
Relationships: BLU Scout/BLU Sniper, RED Scout/RED Sniper, Scout/Sniper (Team Fortress 2)
Series: Hopes and Bridges [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136336
Kudos: 15





	High Hopes

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Высокие надежды](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23612704) by [legacyofbast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/legacyofbast/pseuds/legacyofbast). 



> At the time of 1978, Sniper is 47 years old (non-canon character’s age), Scout is 32/33 years old.  
> Title — “High Hopes” by Pink Floyd.

Three minutes past twelve.

The last time Sniper had spoken to Scout on the phone, they had agreed at twelve. The kid’s cheerful voice ( _not a_ kid _already_ , Sniper assumed) chattered in the receiver. “Twelve. Got it. Yeah sure. Oh, man, stop bitchin’— faster than a speedin’ bullet, y’know. I know you know I know.” ( _soft laughter_ , under his breath, and this sound sent something warm to Sniper’s sternum). “Yeah, yeah, yeah. See ya, man.”

Six years ago, Sniper came back to Australia to the house of his (adoptive) parents. Where else could he go back? At first, he found what he had always wanted—a peaceful solitude. Not a depressing solitude, when you climb the wall because of a nasty state of mind, and not to the disturbing one, when ghosts of the past torment an already suffering soul, but to peace and balance. All was good. Not “good” good, as Scout liked to emphasize in his endless chatter, with a bit of irony and anxiety, but _good_.

The first three years were calm. Season after season, the marksman traveled through the endless wastelands; it seemed that he traveled all over New South Wales, hunting in the bush, sitting on the roof of his van at night and looking at the stars, tracking down UFOs. He grew up here, in these places, familiar with fierce weather of the continent, but during times of heavy rains and intense heat, he preferred to come back to his parents’ house. He didn’t talk to anyone, and silence had become a constant companion of his life; earlier, when he was very young, it bothered him he was somehow _different_ —preferring the company of the animals he saved and the rifle that his father had taught him to shoot with.

That was his world—his parents, bush, and the rifle. And then his parents were gone. At first it hurt, hurt so much, but he let it go. Sniper often remembered them, the whole house was their shadow, everything reminded of them; he could close his eyes and they appeared right before him. It bothered him at first (that’s why he exiled himself in the wastelands), but the good and the light always triumphs over the dark and the bad in memory. He remembered them, but without sadness. They took him in, raised him and loved him like their own son. It was, bloody hell, the brightest and happiest moment of his life.

***

On December 28, 1975, Sniper ran out of cooking oil. It was about eight o’clock in the evening, a thick blood-purple sunset was shining in the window, a recently started yarn was on the couch in the room—a scarf, probably, Sniper hadn’t decided yet. When he thought of making pancakes for himself, as his mother had once made him (a belated gift to himself for Christmas— _he grimaced a little at the thought_ ), he managed to find the right ingredients in his meager supplies.

Eggs, some sugar, flour… what else is there. Yeast? He didn’t know the recipe. (He’ll figure it out along the way.) The man was carefully mixing the ingredients in a bowl, humming along to the song on the radio.

He didn’t even realize that this was the first time in several months that he had uttered a sound at all.

_When times get rough,  
And friends just can't be found,  
Like a bridge over troubled water  
I will lay me down._

With a slight clink, he took out a frying pan ( _and chuckled to himself a little_ ). Even though the lights were on, they were dim; the setting sun was many times brighter, casting the last burgundy rays on the wooden walls, casting reflections on the kitchen utensils. Sniper reached for the dryer, where a bottle of oil usually stood nearby, finding nothing but an empty container. He turned the plastic over in his hands, looked at his watch, and swore.

He had forty minutes before the nearest store closed. There was no question of postponing his plans, so he quickly turned off the light in the kitchen, leaving the radio, put on the old worn leather jacket, his hat, and went out. But he didn’t take his aviators. Making direct eye contact with people was… difficult for him. Not unbearable as before, but difficult.

_Big boy, he could handle it._

He walked briskly down the country road, throwing clouds of dust and small rocks into the air in the purple-red light of the sunset. He would make it in time, he thought. Starting the van for such a trifle would be too long and stupid.

He literally flew into the store, tripping over the threshold, ringing the door bell too loud. Sniper glanced at his watch; it was thirty-two minutes before the store close. He ran for nearly eight minutes.

He cleared his throat quietly, adjusted his hat, and went inside. It was the usual cramped store with poor lighting and the smell of not-so-fresh food, but, well, desperate times call for desperate measures. On the other hand, the song had been played on the radio for the sixth time that day was barely audible from the speakers.

_But my dreams they aren’t as empty_   
_As my conscience seems to be._

The man walked over to the counter, careful not to click the heels of his boots. He adjusted his hat once more, his unbuttoned jacket. He looked at his watch again and exhaled a little raggedly through his nose. There was no one there. Not in the grocery store, not behind the counter.

 _I have hours, only lonely_.

From the storeroom came a noise and a woman’s booming laughter.

“I’ll be right there, Maggie.”

A rather massive, thickly made-up lady approached the counter, wiping her hands on an apron, with a smile all over her face and a neckline all over her…

“What do ye need?” The lady’s face changed sharply as she noticed the tall thin man, arching an eyebrow and lowering her voice. “We’re out of whiskey, it won’t be here ‘til Monday.”

“Whot?” Sniper asked stupidly, looking straight into the eyes of the woman beginning to get angry. “Tomorrow, you mean?”

_Dammit._

“Yes, tomorrow,” she sighed and put her hands on her hips. “Is that all?”

Sniper hesitated, shifting on his feet, and looked down. “No, I need… some cooking oil, ma’am,” he said, hoarse on the last word. The brim of his hat covered his eyes.

The woman jerked the bottle out from under the counter and slammed it to the surface.

“Bickie fifty. ‘S all?”

_When my fist clenches, crack it open_   
_Before I use it and lose my cool._

Sniper looked from under the brim of his hat at the bottle and then at the saleswoman, took more air into his lungs, and managed with a crooked but diligent smile. “An’ smokes.”

When she had finished and he had paid, the man touched the brim of his hat and nodded, muttering, “G’day, ma’am,” but the lady didn’t answer. On the way out, when the doorbell rang again, Sniper stood in the open doorway, lighting a cigarette, he heard a sarcastic, like a spit, “Rotten bogan.”

He stood still with a cigarette between his lips and a lighted lighter, and a fire played in his glassy eyes.

_When I smile, tell me some bad news_   
_Before I laugh and act like a fool._

He trudged home, staring at nothing. His blue-gray eyes moved over the dark plains, the dusty road that stretched away to infinity, small houses with bright windows, the sky that had already darkened heavily in the east, where Crux was, where the purple-pink sunset still shone with soft colors in the west.

The marksman stopped in front of his house, finishing his second cigarette. He took one last drag, the light glinting in the gloom, before dropping the butt on the sandy ground and rubbing it with his boot. He lit a third, snapping the metal lighter softly. His hands were shaking. He’s a grown man in his forties, and he was _shaking_.

Sniper took a deep drag, igniting the flame, and exhaled a thick stream of cheap cigarette smoke. He looked up at the dark windows of his parents’ house. Then back to the sunset.

And he felt sad.

Out of habit, he reached into his mailbox, pulling out some flyers and mailing lists. He hasn’t checked for a long time, so the pack was as thick as a decent magazine. He walked to the porch, tossing the bag and bottle on the plank floor, and sat down on the last step, looking through the letters. Some bills, advertisements, a Sunday paper. He flipped through the pages, and then came across an envelope.

Sniper glanced at the last lines of the return address on the paper.

“…Boston, Massachusetts, USA”.

There was a thud behind his sternum, a cold silence spilled in place of the quiet hum of his thoughts. He was reading the lines written in a large, angular handwriting.

First, there was fear, then curiosity, then anxiety. He took a last drag (the ash fell on the smooth surface of the paper), rising on his long sinewy legs, quickly got back in the house taking the oil as well.

The house was dark and empty, the dust visible in the last purple rays of the dying sun. There was an evening broadcast on the radio. The man turned on the light, for some reason putting the bottle in the refrigerator, sat down at the table to sort out the mail. More precisely, to study one particular letter in a great detail.

He was so disturbed by this that he began to mumble something under his breath. He stopped and grimaced. After all, his finger had never flinched on the trigger, so why was he so unsettled now?

Opening the envelope with his thumb, he took out a yellowish piece of paper. The handwriting was sprawling, angular, the same as on the address bar, but readable. Someone wrote it very carefully, Sniper noticed. The text was written with drops of ink and a misspelled word, which Sniper accidentally laid his eyes on.

He began to read.

 _Hey Snipes_  
 _Pal I found you! I’ve been looking for you like for eighting months I guess thought you were dead! It was difficult I tell ya. Fuck I don’t know what to write in letters. If your there I’m really happy._  
(A few drops. Crossed out. Crossed out again.)  
 _I hope your doing fine there. I’m doing fine in case if your interested. It’s cold here now. It must be warm in there yeah? Down Under?_  
 _Merry Christmas Snipes. Dunno when you get this letter so Merry Early Christmas and Merry Late Christmas._  
 _I— We—_ (crossed out.)  
 _Write me later._  
 _Scout._

It was a good two minutes before Sniper took a deep breath, staring unblinkingly at the simple lines. He put down the letter, took off his hat, rubbed his eyes, and scratched his four-day-old stubble. And thought about it. It washed over him like a sudden cool rain on a hot day, rushing into him like an east wind rushing into a room on a hot night.

He realized that in all these three years he didn’t think about his teammates. Day after day, life went on as usual, everything was as it had always been; he, without noticing it, turned the page of his life of four years, without returning to it any more. It wasn’t out of spite he didn’t think about them, no, he just didn’t think about them at all—he put up barriers in his mind as if it never happened.

But he didn’t forget about them, no. Of course, he didn’t. Especially the kid. A nasty and noisy little ankle-biter, a drunk, always-running-his-mouth runner, bullying everyone and sometimes getting kicked in the teeth. With a flashing grin, a baseball bat, and an accent that could only be understood the second time around. It wasn’t until the second year that he started lowering his barriers, bothering Heavy, Spy, and everyone else with stupid questions, asking for advice. Sometimes about real issues, sometimes not. Clearly, he was trying to make contact.

One day, the kid came to Sniper when he was sitting on the ground near his van and drinking. It was a starry night, he remembered, August. Scout asked if Sniper wanted something to eat, because the man never ate with his comrades and didn’t appear at the base at all. After receiving a negative answer, the kid didn’t give up, and began to pester him. Well, _pester_ him. He asked him two or three questions, but Sniper was so drunk and so lost in his thoughts that any sound disturbed him. And made him a little angry.

And then, for some reason (Sniper didn’t remember what was that reason), Scout stayed with him. He was sitting right next to him, looking at the same stars. Sniper relaxed, shared a bottle with his friend. They were drinking and looking up at the sky when all geezed up Sniper burst into a monologue about constellations. He was pointing his finger somewhere into the void, telling him what these or these shining dots meant. He spoke for so long that after ten minutes, not being used to talking for so long, his voice was hoarse and his nose was stuffy, but he went on and on.

In the end, for the first time in his life, he confessed to someone he wanted to see a UFO at least once.

He couldn’t remember any more. All he remembered was that he hadn’t woken up on the ground among the bottles, but in his van; when he realized the team will pick on him because of his confession, he let out a groan, suffering from a severe headache, “He’ll tell everyone.”

Scout didn’t tell anyone.

He kept coming to see him—they drank together, fixed the van, cleaned it, stargazed together, went hunting. Not far, the rules didn’t allow it, so they always hung around a kilometer and a half from the base in the vast wastelands of New Mexico.

The mercenaries began to notice Scout’s absence more and more often, but they didn’t bring it up much. Only Spy grinned maliciously when one day the tall man in a slouch hat came into the common room following the kid, hiding his eyes behind the aviators. The younger man had talked him into it, after all.

Annoying little bastard with a heart of gold.

It was all pretty much like Scout.

Sniper ran his thumb over the rough surface of the yellow paper, tracing the lines of letters written with a fountain pen. Kitchen light fell on him, enveloping his overgrown coarse hair, his increasingly sharp cheekbones, his tense shoulders, his sinewy arms, piercing his sternum; it seemed the man was about to glow from the inside.

_He will, Scout._

_Of course, he will._

***

On the morning of January 2, 1976, Sniper went to the nearest post office, taking a letter with him, he successfully wrote only the third time, and a parcel with a knitted scarf in Christmas colors—with red and green stripes—as a gift.

He left home early, just in time for the post office to open, but the heat was already terrible. The hot air heated on the stony ground burned his lungs, the sun blinded his eyes through the aviators, and flies bit him. Despite this, the man was right on time, not paying too much attention to the weather; staying in the department and talking to people didn’t cause such post-traumatic stress as last time.

From that moment on, time flew. Every week and a half or two, a new letter would come, and Sniper would write back. Each time the letters ware becoming longer (and more literate on Scout’s part); they talked about everything, practically without formalizing the text itself; they continued the conversation where they would end it in the previous letter, having a kind of a written dialogue with a two-week delay.

They talked about their wellbeing, about the weather, about nature. Sniper told him about watching another animal in the bush, complained the same thing was being played on the radio; Scout told him he missed stargazing and UFO hunt, that he “tried it himself, but it’s not cool how it used to be”; that he was feeling out of place in the “normal” society. Sniper replied with a huge grin on his face, “Fuck them.”

He got the kid.

Such activities did not require much chatter or etiquette; they just spent time together in comfortable silence, sitting on the roof of the van. Scout sometimes drew something, Sniper sometimes knitted by the light of a kerosene lamp. It was amazing how he could see anything in the pitch-black August night in the middle of the New Mexico wilderness, but he did. The kid drew everything that caught his eye—the horizon, the desert, rocks, sometimes shooting stars.

When he saw one, he would shove the man in the shoulder, eagerly pointing somewhere into infinity, whispering loudly, “Quick, man, make a wish!” Sniper paused remembering the link, and only then raised his eyes to the sky. Scout drawled in frustration, “Aw-w Snipes, too slow”.

They would go back to their activities in each other’s company. Scout drew everything. Sometimes he drew Sniper. He didn’t show it, but the man knew anyway, and he didn’t mind it.

He didn’t know how to describe the feeling, but he enjoyed the kid’s company. Sniper wouldn’t let anyone into his world; Spy tried to pick up the invisible veil of his security with his butterfly knife, but it didn’t work. Even though he was close, closer than Sniper would let any of the humans get to him.

Except for his adoptive parents, of course.

Scout just slipped through his barrier, unnoticed and quick, watchful and careful. Sniper let him in.

On one of those nights, just before the end of the war and the termination of the contract, Scout feeling emotional (because of the _coming separation_ probably, they both will never admit it to themselves), told Sniper his real name.

Sniper already knew it by then. Spy, despite his professionalism, when he was drinking more than he should’ve, indulged in memories and regrets about mistakes of his youth. It is impossible to say Sniper often drank with him, but he drank _good_ specifically once. And it was Spy who was specifically a _mess_.

Especially that time when BLU Sniper severely wounded RED Sniper with a neurotoxin dart, leaving him barely alive, not sending him to Respawn, and left him suffering. He was recovering for a good four days. Doc fixed him, of course, but Sniper will never forget these three days.

Unbearable pain in the body, which seemed to tear the muscles and then paralysis on the second day. Sniper remembered the incident not only because of the severe injury, but also because of Spy’s reaction. He took it… hard. Sniper didn’t know why, it was hard for the Frenchman to bear. Of all people.

With his hat knocked off, covered in his own blood and vomit, Sniper was sitting near a concrete wall, asking Spy who had found him to shoot him out of mercy, for the pain was unbearable ( _like his existence_ , he thought).

With unbidden tears of anger and despair, he shouted hoarsely at Spy that he wanted to mock him to his heart’s content, because he was mocking him now, watching his agony.

Spy stood there with a revolver in his hand and watched. He watched and he couldn’t.

Sniper remembered Spy coming down to him, touching his good shoulder, carefully removing his broken glasses (as if he could hurt him with that gesture), wiping away sweat and tears, assuring him everything would be all right, and Doctor would be here soon. He spoke very softly, not in the Spy way, as if he were talking to an idiot, and he told him to keep his eyes on him, so Sniper remembered the look in his eyes—harmless and a little lost.

He spent four days in bed. The first night—at the medbay, under Medic’s supervision, then three more at the base, in his uninhabited room. Sniper didn’t understand why, but his teammates were looking after him (would he have gone AWOL, or what? paralyzed?). The second night—Scout, the third and fourth—Spy. Despite the paralysis, the second night was easier than the first, third, and, in fact, fourth. (He continued to be ill for about a month, but he couldn’t stay in bed any longer).

On the third and fourth nights Spy looked after him; watching him suffering, he had been giving him a drink, despite that Doc told him not to, and got drunk himself. Alcohol killed pain better than a painkiller itself.

On the forth night Spy broke out into a confession. A man who never fully showed his face has completely bared his soul. As Sniper later found out, Heavy, Medic, and Demo knew about it. Of course, they were also drinkers. Someone was not hard drinkers, someone was. He recalled, at the end of his monologue, the Frenchman looked bitterly at the Australian as he watched him with unblinking, glassy eyes, and said in a husky voice with his trademark accent, “Sharp words hurt deep, _mon cher_ , but your silence hurts deeper.” He drained the glass, not realizing that it was hard for Sniper to talk.

_Jeremy. Son._

He remembered that.

***

In April, letters stopped. Sniper went to the post office twice, sent letters twice. On the third time he stopped. No answer.

 _He doesn’t have to write me_ , the marksman thought. _He had something else to do. Work. Or maybe he just got tired of it._

Scout, he was always like this— _runnin’ circles around ya_ , and then vanishes into thin air. After all, he knows his address and phone number. If he wanted to, he would write.

At the beginning of May, when autumn came and a heat receded, Sniper went to the coast. The bush and the desert were his natural habitat, but now he wanted to see something alive. It would seem that silence was his companion of his life, it always was, but after the time when the kid stopped writing him, something stiffened in him again, as when he left the States for good. Do not remember, just turn the page. Just like that time when his parents died.

He stood smoking by the van, watching raging Tasman Sea. The wind ruffled his jacket, trying to tear off his hat. There were no people around, he was thankful. He couldn’t bare someone’s presence right now.

He went hunting for a month, and only in June, by the beginning of winter, he came home. The weather was abominable, rain was pouring down washing away the clay and sand.

As soon as he drove the van into the back yard, he shot right back into the house, flooding the hallway with torrents of water, hanging his jacket and hat on a hook, throwing his glasses on the kitchen table and collapsing on the couch with a bottle of cheap Scotch, realizing in a moment he hadn’t checked the mailbox. And he didn’t turn off the radio.

The rain stopped two days later. Sniper was lying there, cold, drunk, wrapped in a blanket. There were three bottles lying around the couch, he was finishing the fourth.

 _Rotten bogan._ She was right, after all.

_When darkness comes_   
_And pain is all around_   
_Like a bridge over troubled water_   
_I will lay me down._

They were playing that damn song again. Sniper got suddenly annoyed by this—it’s long and boring, does it matter it’s a hit song? He’s not interested.

_Turn off the bloody radio._

_Nah._

_Mail_ , flashed through his mind. He darted out as if he was scalded.

He returned home with a damp stack of paper—newspapers, mailings, bills. No letters. He flipped through the stack again. No letters.

He put the mail on the table, picked up his cigarettes and a lighter. He went out on the porch and sat down to smoke, wearing only his shirt.

A few more days passed, the rain kept coming back and stopping. Sniper didn’t know what to do with himself. He was drinking, smoking, going grocery shopping, shooting bottles. A great pastime for a professional killer.

The rain came back again, the temperature dropped to five degrees. There was nothing to do; because of the bad weather the telly was picking up the signal badly, so the radio became the man’s second companion, in addition to silence.

About one o’clock in the afternoon he felt urge to shave, so he did. He stood outside the bathroom and shaved, leaning on the door and occasionally glancing in the mirror. The radio was humming, rain with the east wind were beating against the windows. He was about to finish when there was a sudden and deafening crack in the house. Sniper jumped in place, dropping the razor, slamming his hand against the wall and cutting his cheek. Then there was silence. He stumbled over his feet as he tried to lift the blade, and then there was another crack, mixed with a clang.

 _A phone, god fucking dammit._ A bloody old phone with a dial. It didn’t ring, but cracked furiously.

“Fuck,” Sniper growled, quickly washing the last of the foam from his face, pressing the towel to his sore cheek.

Whoever it was, he was ready to break their face right here and right now, because Sniper was angry, and it was not easy to make Sniper angry.

He strode into the room, grabbing the receiver from the rusted panel, almost ripping the wire out by the roots.

“Yeah?” he barked into the microphone, but at first there was no response.

Light noise, crackling. Metallic clicking.

“Hey, Snipes,” a colorless voice came through the receiver. The man didn’t react at first, he was silent; he took a breath and stopped short. He felt as if he’d been shot. “Snipes, is tha’ you?” the voice continued even quieter, more muffled, more anxious.

“Scout,” Sniper said, voice scorched, realizing he had to sit down, “yeah… yeah, ‘s me.”

He took the phone with him, dragging the wire through the house, and sat down at the kitchen table.

“Aw man, it’s so— so good to hear you.” Sniper couldn’t see him, but he knew Scout was smiling.

“Yeah, me too— er,” Sniper trailed off. “Mate, are you alright?” he put the phone down on the table and slung the towel with the bloody mark over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” a choked, hoarse laugh came, “‘Course, it’s cool.”

Silence.

“I just—” Scout said, “I just haven’t written for a long time, didn’t wanna ya to think I gave up on ya or somethin’”. There was a pause after each sentence. He was taking a deep breath.

 _It was hard for him to talk_ , Sniper realized.

“Are you at gunpoint?” the man asked, voice even, all tensing up. There was nothing he could do anyway; his brain immediately switched to battle mode. It was a pure reflex; there was nothing he could do.

“No,” Scout snorted.

“What’s going on then? Where are you? What’s up with you?” Sniper was already painting bloody pictures with the kid in the lead role. His anxiety was growing exponentially. “Speak.”

He didn’t notice the trembling of his index finger of the right hand.

“Hey, _hey_ , pal! Stop yelling at me!” Scout replied more firmly, even shushing him. “I’m just at the hospital. I’ll live.”

“Why?” Sniper felt his back relax a little.

“Well uhh— some asshole ran me over two months ago, I guess.”

The man exhaled and rubbed the bridge of his nose painfully with his thumb and forefinger. Yes, it was all like the kid. He could come in from the flanks, but no, _no_ , he could go and get himself killed under a bullet rain. But it was always Doc who caught him. There was no Doc here.

Scout began to tell him.

“I was crossin’ the road, no one there—I swear!— an’ this freakin’ asshole in his freakin’ Chevy. I didn’t understand anything, it didn’t hurt, I was just flyin’, then — boom — an’ a bone sticks out of my leg. There was so much blood, like, everywhere. That asshole left— I don’ remember the number. Just—just remember it was Chevy.”

The kid was acting brave, gasping, taking a deep breath after each sentence.

The man listened, being silent.

“An’ it’s fine, really, it’s just the leg, an’— _Snipes_ ,” Scout’s voice broke at the most inopportune moment despite his facade of bravado. “Leg is bad. They say they don’t know what to do with it anymore.”

“They’ll fix you,” Sniper replied softly and deeply, “you’ve been through so much, your leg is a, er, piece of piss.”

“You don’t get it, man,” a crackle came again, the voice quieter, “they’ve done it three times already, each time worse than the last. Tomorrow—” a pause, a breath, “tomorrow they’ll do it again, put this metal thing in me. Doc said I might not be able to make it— won’t wake up, I mean,” he concluded.

“This is _rot_ ,” the man grumbled, voice low, trying to force a smile, as if he was next to the kid, being with him, looking at him. “They’ll patch you up, it’ll be alright. You’ll walk and run again, won’t you? Like a little roo,” he was as gentle as he could be.

Scout chuckled, then broke off with a strangled groan.

“Scout?” Sniper called him, alarmed.

The kid was lying on the bed, covered with a sheet, thin, with sharpened features, pale, with dark circles under his sore eyes. The lights in the hospital room were dim; it was late evening outside. No one was there. He was holding the flat receiver of the push-button phone standing on the bedside table for dear life, his cheek next to it, and he cried silently.

“Scout?” Sniper called him again more worried.

The man couldn’t even fathom how happy the kid was to hear him. Loneliness and pain burned his brains; the older man’s voice wrapped him like a loving embrace.

“Man, it hurts so much,” he said suddenly, sobbing softly. “This shit— hurts since day one. I’m gonna lose my mind. I can’t stay here anymore. I can’t go outside. They give me somethin’, but it hurts so much, I can’t sleep. An’ tomorrow I will fuckin’ die.”

His words were barely audible, but Sniper understood every word. He hunched his shoulders more and more.

“I’m so scared, Snipes,” Scout said in a wobbly whisper, and something broke in Sniper’s chest for good.

“It’s alright.”

“Stay with me, please. For a while.”

He begged and cried, barely making a sound, and Sniper couldn’t do anything.

“Of course. ‘Course I’ll be ‘ere,” he assured him, shifting in his chair, his voice calmer and firmer.

“Tell me somethin’. Anythin’. You said you were huntin’ again. Did you shoot all the ‘bloody roos’?” Scout managed to squeeze out a snicker.

The man chuckled.

“Yeah, kid. Actually, I went upstate to shoot,” Sniper said. “Never missed a shot.”

“Poor roos.”

“Yeah.”

“‘Never missed a shot’, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Stop laughing,” they were both laughing, muffled and low, as if someone could hear them.

The laughter disappeared somewhere in the air and thousands of kilometers between them. Silence.

“Anyone’s with you?” Sniper asked softly again.

“Uhh— well, y’know, my family has other stuff to worry about. Jack— _my brother_ died, Ma’s got a new husband, other stuff— they’ve got a lot right now.”

“They don’t know, do they?” More of a statement than a question.

There was silence on the other end of the line. Scout felt his eyes begin to sting again. “No,” he mouthed, but the man heard, “just you.”

A heavy sigh. Crackling, fuss.

“Don’t go, Snipes!” The horror of being alone poured over Scout like an icy water. He realized his hands were shaking. He tightened his grip on the phone.

“I’m ‘ere, kid,” Sniper replied with reassurance, “I’ll be ‘ere ‘til you fall asleep.”

“Thanks. It’s just…” Scout breathed a sigh of relief for the first time. “Not just for that. For everything, man.”

The man realized where he was going and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Don’t do that. They _will_ fix you, you _will_ wake up. Everything will be alright.”

Silence. Now calm, no crackling. The kid smiled (and stretched out a little in bed, relaxing his exhausted body).

“Snipes?”

“Hmm?”

“Sing me a lullaby.”

Sniper snorted at this request, smiling, rubbing his face. “Bugger off. ‘m not gonna sing to you. I’m not your mum.”

“Snipes.”

“No. Don’t even ask.”

“Snipes.”

He let out a heavy sigh.

“Okay.”

Sniper couldn’t sing, he was embarrassed by it. The most he did was humming a song to himself when he was alone. But now he tried as best he could, though he lowered his voice, and, in fact, he wasn’t singing, but softly saying the lines. The husky baritone was soothing Scout. He didn’t care what he was saying, as long as he was here. He was humming the damned “Bridge over Troubled Waters”, making comments along the way.

He lulled him ( _as lousy as it sounds_ ) for about an hour. He found himself talking about his owl when he heard Scout’s sleepy voice on the phone. “Man, I’m drifting off.”

Sniper nodded and smiled mostly to himself.

“I’ll call you again… when it’s over. Okay?”

“Okay, okay,” the man smiled sincerely and kindly.

“Good night, Snipes.”

Sniper looked out the window, where the midday sky was brightening after the rain.

“G’night, Scout.”

A light click, short beeps. He hung up and realized he hadn’t asked for the hospital number.

***

He couldn’t sleep that night. He walked around the house, went outside, wandered around, smoked. He couldn’t drink. His imagination was working bloody well. Scout’s words tormented him, and most of all, he didn’t know where to call when something would happen that shouldn’t happen. There was no Respawn or Doc here. This was for good.

He will go to Boston if the kid doesn’t call, and he will look for him in every hospital.

The kid didn’t call. Morning of the next day came, then afternoon, then evening. Nothing. The radio grumbled, the ashtray filled, the bottles flew away one by one.

On the night before the end of the contract, it wasn’t just Scout who said his real name. Sniper told him his own name too, and they shook hands.

_Mundy._

_Nice to meet you_ , Scout grinned then.

_Me too, Jeremy._

Sniper kept thinking about this.

There was nothing when the second night came. He could neither eat nor sleep, nor even drink now—his stomach ached—he only smoked. He sat at the kitchen table in the light of a dim yellow lamp, falling somewhere beyond the horizon of his consciousness.

In the early morning, he dozed off dropping his head next to the ashtray.

_Hey, Snipes._

The deafening crack of the phone made the man almost fly out from the table. He got up abruptly, put on his aviators, and rushed to the phone.

“Scout?!”

“Maggie, dear, I didn’t finish—”

Sniper went berserk in a split second.

“For fu— you got the wrong number, lady!”

“Uh…” A pause, and then, curiously, “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure! Check the damn number before you call!”

He slammed down the phone. His heart was pounding, his shoulders were shaking. He glanced first at his wristwatch, and then at the wall clock; it was about eight in the morning. Outside, it was beginning to get light. It was drizzling. His ears were ringing. He rubbed his neck. He glanced at the phone and clenched his jaw.

Fuck it all. He will go.

The second ringing made him flinch and stumble again, but now he was extremely aggressive.

“For fuck’s sake lady I fuckin’ told you already—”

“Snipes?”

The whispering voice on the other end of the line took his anger away, like an east wind taking away the heat. Sniper exhaled happily.

“Scout! Christ, kid.”

“I’m good, man,” Scout assured him, as if sensing him. His voice was weak and hoarse, but there was no heaviness in it. “They put this metal thing in me. Everything went well. I’ll walk. Doc promised.”

“See, I told you,” Sniper replied with genuine joy, making his way to the table on wobbly legs, “everything will be alright, you’ve been through so much worse than that.”

“Now I’ll have… some kind of a period? After? Don’t remember,” he chuckled. “They’ll let me go in a month or somethin’.”

“Alright, alright,” the sharpshooter said, wiping his wet eyes under his glasses.

“I didn’t call you before ‘cause… I was lying in bed counting. Well, uh, y’know, time. You had a night out there. Didn’t wanna wake you up.”

Sniper froze, then laughed nervously.

“You didn’t, don’t worry.”

A beat of silence.

“I can come visit you.”

Scout hesitated, and Sniper heard it.

“Man, I’d really like to, but… it’s a different country, an’—an’ it’s just a leg, an’—” he was lost, and Sniper didn’t know why he was pushing him away. It was bitter on the tongue. “It’s nothing serious, an’ you said you couldn’t be around people, an’ I don’t wanna look like, well, uh— a wuss, y’know?”

Sniper was silent.

“Snipes,” Scout called nervously, swallowing and licking his dry lips, “it’s not because I don’ _miss_ you, it’s just… I don’t want anyone to see me _like this_ , y’know? Man, please understand. Do you understand?”

His bravado. Facade. Of course, Sniper understood now.

“Yeah, kid,” the man said, just as gently, “I understand.”

“Aw, thanks, man,” the kid breathed out in relief. “Thank you.”

They talked for a long time afterwards. About this, about that. About their letters, about their wellbeing, about the weather, about nature. Scout promised to send a Christmas gift, and promised they would meet again.

At the end of the conversation, Sniper began to drift off, and Scout ironically wished him good night. As soon as the phone touched the panel, the man barely made it to the couch on wobbly legs and passed out for a day and a half.

***

It was the end of 1976. On December 24, (Scout guessed correctly), Sniper got a letter with a Merry Christmas greeting. The envelope was larger than usual, and there were several sheets inside. It was a rather huge letter, enormous for Scout, but he managed, and carefully wrote it in his large, angular handwriting. He described the events of the past year, thanked Sniper a hundred times for his participation, and confessed that he missed him. There was a simple postscript. “I didn’t have a shit to do in the hospital so anyway. Dudes don’t give each other drawings but I did.”

The letter was three pages long, and the fourth sheet was a portrait of Sniper drawn in pencil. There was a caption at the bottom. “Mick Mundy. Coldfront, ‘71”. Signed by the artist himself simply as “Jerry”.

The man stared at himself with a crooked smile, heartfelt and flustered. It really was him, exactly like him. He was younger then, though. And he didn’t have overgrown hair as he does now.

1977 flew fast. Life went on as usual. Letters, calls, hunting, the coast. All was good. Then Scout disappeared. Again.

And Sniper got worried. Again. In August, the letters stopped, and Sniper was calling and writing again.

Scout showed up in November, he was writing him, but without a return address. The handwriting was different, the paper was different, the envelopes were different. But he kept saying that everything was good, and that everything soon will be back to normal, and they would meet again very soon. At one point, it started to be very disturbing, but in December, Sniper realized what the kid was talking about, and there was no mystery in it.

Pauling contacted him.

They were assembling the team again, and Scout was one of the first to join them. That is, the kid fully expected Sniper would join the old team.

In particular, he would follow _him. Bastard._

In the early morning of February 15, 1978, Sniper drove into the state of New Mexico and called Scout from a gas station.

_“Twelve. Got it. Yeah sure. Oh, man, stop bitchin’— faster than a speedin’ bullet, y’know. I know you know I know.” (soft laughter) “Yeah, yeah, yeah. See ya, man.”_

He drove a simple car, leaving his van in Australia. The radio hummed with amazing sound quality, and Sniper chuckled when he heard the damn song again.

_If you need a friend_   
_I’m sailing right behind_   
_Like a bridge over troubled water_   
_I will ease your mind._

If there was a god, he certainly had a sense of humor.

The man arrived at the RED base one of the first, seeing only Pyro and Engineer; they nodded to each other and parted.

It was three minutes past twelve. Sniper had been standing for about forty minutes, even though he shouldn’t have. Never mind, that was his job—to wait. It’s all right. He was finishing his fifth cigarette. He didn’t know why he was so shaken. It was Scout, it was the base, it was the same people. He didn’t know how Scout would react—it was true. He didn’t know what to do; should he shake hands, nod? How can he start a conversation? He had been away from people for too many years not to experience social anxiety.

He adjusted his hat, aviators. His leather jacket. He leaned back against a concrete wall and kicked the sand and snow with the heel of his boot. Direct eye contact was difficult. Even if it was Scout. Deep down, he didn’t want to meet anyone closely except the kid.

He was forty-seven, and he was afraid to say hello. _Ah, piss._ He spat.

Scout got there on his own, too. In the cool weather, his engine was constantly stalling, which simply pissed him off. In six years, he managed to learn and get a driver’s license, yes.

When a dull gray building appeared on the horizon in the middle of the wasteland, his heart sank. He clenched and unclenched his un-bandaged free hand, occasionally rubbing his bad leg. He was nervous, too. He was afraid Sniper wouldn’t recognize him. He’s grown up, stretched out a little more, got wiry. He didn’t know how to get to him, how to start a conversation, whether he would let him touch him. He had a lot on his mind.

Sniper was afraid Scout wouldn’t recognize him. He’s… aged. That’s all. He noticed it several times, noticing more wrinkles and gray hair, and how he was starting to dry. He looked in the mirror and saw the old dust that had to be swept away. That’s what he thought.

He took a last drag on his cigarette and, exhaling the smoke and steam, dropped the butt to the ground, rubbing it with the heel of his boot.

“Hey, Snipes?”

The familiar voice snapped him out of his thoughts. The man started, flashing his aviators, blinding and not letting to see his own eyes. The kid was standing there, near the corner. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt, the damn red and green scarf, and a backpack on his shoulder. Sniper went stiff.

They stood and looked at each other.

Yes, they had changed, but God knew they were still the same.

“Hey, Snipes!” The kid’s voice faltered; he took the first step, taking his backpack off his shoulder.

 _Scout_ , Sniper wanted to say, and he could not. He just stared through the glasses from under his hat, afraid to show his eyes. _Scout. Jeremy. Kid._

In an instant, Scout threw his backpack onto the rocky ground and rushed to him.

Sniper took a few steps forward, instinctively opening his arms. There was a good twenty meters between them, fourteen years of age difference, and six years of separation. The runner took the last few leaps forward, literally throwing himself at the older man, and he caught him on himself. He didn’t balance right away, at first staggering back dangerously, but then he leaned towards him, hugging his thin back. The kid buried his face somewhere in the man’s collarbone, gripping his leather jacket in a death grip, as if he could disappear or fade; he wrapped his arms around his neck and tense shoulders, panting—from the heat of his clothes, from running, from the tears choking him.

“Jerry,” was all Sniper could manage, as Scout hanging on him began to cry openly, unashamedly for the first time. The man didn’t know what to say, so he whispered comforting nonsense, caressing the back of his head and leaning even closer to him.

Choking on their own emotions, they pulled away, saying something to each other, laughing and crying ( _on the Scout’s part, of course_ ). Sniper looked at him, rocking him gently by the shoulders and ruffling his soft blond hair, feeling alive and free. He caught himself on the fact that he missed half of the Scout’s sentence.

“…think we’ll be hangin’ ‘round here for a long time, just hope not for good.”

The man flinched, looking down at the kid, affection in his eyes. The _kid_ who was already in his thirties.

“No worries, mate. Even if it’s for good.”

 _Together_ , he wanted to say, and he didn’t. Scout was beaming and smiling.

 _Now for good_ , Sniper thought.

Now for good.


End file.
